A/N: Still not British, a writer, or part of a retro travelling circus. -csf
. Second Part .
The travelling pace of our convoy of trailers and trucks has been monotonous and uneventful. I've been talking to Mary on the phone – she's doing fine – for the last couple of hours, while Sherlock has been packing and unpacking, shuffling his things around, getting his stage act ready. Given enough time we may just forget our real jobs.
'Haven't you sorted that out yet, Sherlock?' Feels like my uncommunicative friend has been doing nothing else throughout this very long voyage.
'Almost', he responds honestly, very engaged in his task. 'Isn't it time to sharpen your knives, John?'
No, I want them anything but sharpened. 'What if they insist that I need an assistant? Someone to throw knives at?'
'Someone to miss hitting', he points out the mechanics of the game. 'You'll be fine, John.'
'I'm not that good, Sherlock... Is that wishful thinking or a deduction?'
'No', the absent-minded genius answers. I realise he hasn't even been paying attention. With a deep sigh I look out of the window. We've crossed the Channel during the night and we're roaming inland somewhere in France. Small short countryside houses are sparse along the tar roads we travel. Agricultural fields and industrial facilities pop in and out of view as I lose my gaze out of the trailer's window. Finally I realise we're decelerating and reaching a more populated town. Get the tents ready, put on a show, collect everything, leave again. It must be a hard life.
'What's up, Sherlock?'
He's gone into an activity frenzy, tapping away on his phone.
'The case, John, the case! I need to find out what they plan to steal here tonight! Or do you actually want to be a part of the circus forever?'
I smile, recognising the old Sherlock, hyperactive and energised. As for me, I feel exhausted by the whole day's travel and anxious as to my performance. No matter what distracted-Sherlock says, I don't feel that I'll be fine.
.
I've been doing my share of the construction work for the tent, the ticket office, the food area and everything else. Sherlock has made himself disappear – his first magic act, I'd assume – as this sort of manual labour is not really his thing. Somehow he has escaped detection and I've seen him snoop around the campsite secretly, once in a while.
A couple of hours after he went MIA, Sherlock startles me as he materialises by my side again. He takes my mallet and gives me the rope to tie to the ground while he whispers: 'I cannot stop the robbery because there aren't enough proofs for the Scotland Yard to take jurisdiction over the French authorities. We are going to have to let it happen, then seize the stolen property, report it and let the Police take care of it.'
'Charming', I comment sarcastically, whipping my sweaty brow with my sleeve. 'Any chance we can get all of that done before we're due on stage?'
He nods. 'I'll try. Either way, you'll be fine.' Yeah, still not sure about that, Sherlock. 'That's just stage-fright, John.'
With a wink he moves swiftly away, disappearing again. 'Sherlock?' I call him, as soon as I realise he's gone. Any chance you could have taken me with you?
.
The show has started, the lights in the tent sparkle in the night, the public is buzzing, the acrobats are endangering their lives and the clowns are pulling out laughs out of old routines. Everything is accounted for, except Sherlock. Haven't seen him since the afternoon.
If there was a plan, he's forgotten to communicate it to me.
As the Strong Man comes off the round centre stage he points ominously at me. 'You're next, Shorty.'
I tilt my head to the side, clenching my jaw. I'll deal with him later.
Right. My turn. Go to the centre, throw some knives around, get back out. Piece of cake.
Your plan is certainly taking long, Sherlock!
" ...Welcome Dagger John to the stage, the man that can snap off the lit end of a cigarette from thirty feet away... "
Come on...
The crowd is cheering for their promised hero, there is hardly any turning back now. As if sensing my hesitation I still hear Lieutenant Chandler edge me on: 'Go get them, John! Show them what you can do!'
Right. Hm. Stage.
I walk on to the middle of the stage, squared shoulders, set jaw, as if it was my latest battlefield. I'm wearing dark shirt and trousers, it's the stupid long cape that makes me look so silly, as a cartoonish villain from the silent movies era.
I stop mid-stage and look defiantly to the quietening audience. In a wide theatrical gesture I open one side of the cape and show a few knives hanging there. Like a misguided kitchen chef on a rampage. How can anyone take me seriously?
" ...Will hit the balloons on a target across the arena... "
Fine, I can do that. I take one knife out, show it around to the audience. It doesn't bend, it's not fake, it's not remotely controlled. I should have thought of one of those sooner.
One fast swing of the wrist and the yellow balloon pops.
" ...Dagger John will now through two knives at the same time... "
Boring. I take the knives out and hold them apart as I show them to the audience. Then I turn to the target and fling them.
Double-pop. Done.
People are actually clapping. It's not like it was a couple of impossible shots...
" ...With the last knife, Dagger John will hit a simple apple across the stage... "
Small target, right. As I'm reaching for the knife on the other side of my silly cape, I hear more instructions over the megaphone:
" ...He will hit the apple held by his assistant, in a life-daring act... "
Assistant? Who would be crazy enough to volunteer? I strain to look under the spotlights aimed at me and recognise the tall thin figure of Sherlock Holmes. He's not in his magician costume. He must have been caught long ago.
No matter all his publicised trust in my skills, I know he didn't quite volunteer. Probably he's been caught while snooping around or even as he seized the hidden stolen property. This is artistically played payback. And they are counting on me failing the target and hitting an unprotected Sherlock with a knife.
Fine, I'll miss him by a mile if I have to.
As I make the decision to fail my shot I see a brisk gesture from behind the backstage curtain. It's my strategic positioning that allows me to see what is blocked from view to the audience. The first magician is holding his own knife by Miss Rose's throat in threat. Either I throw the knife at Sherlock (sealing his fate) or at any sign of rebellion he hurts her.
I guess she didn't foresee her own fortune.
It's a deadlock. Even if I hit the apple – I'm not sure I can – the manager is still in control. I need a plan, and Sherlock is totally unavailable. Time is dragging on and I need to make a choice.
Sherlock drives me mad. I've often felt that one day I'd end up shooting him before I could help myself. Being it a gun or a knife, I didn't quite expect to go at it deliberately.
I hold my breath to steady my breathing pattern and heart rate as much as I can, then raise the sharp knife as the crowd is cheering on, unsuspecting of the real danger. They must be convinced there must be some trick somewhere, in an over perfected routine. I wish there was.
Sherlock actually nods at me, confidently. His expression is way too young and vulnerable under the spotlight's scrutiny. I can't do this.
'Go on, John!' he yells cheerfully, playing along in the deceit. He goes even further, calling the crowd to join him. I shake my head, desperately. He's looking over at Rose, making me think of her. Is it too late to walk off the stage?
"Three!" the crowd counts down. "Two!"
I close my eyes, breathing hard. "One!" Wait, I can't do this with my eyes closed. I open them and throw the dagger. Immediately I feel an electric shock running past me and my knees weaken. I don't want to look, but I know I have to...
Sherlock is smiling as he shows the crowd the stabbed apple. I don't think I can remain standing up anymore. The crowd keeps cheering but I think they are all masochists, and refuse to take the praise as a compliment.
And Rose?
I turn to see her walking into the stage with another showbiz smile gracefully pointing at me. Behind her there is a cloud of thick smoke erupting from backstage, where she's got rid of the criminal manager on her own. She was a soldier, after all, sided by a magician-equipped Sherlock that created a chemical smoke curtain at her disposal. She must have activated it when everyone's gaze was on the apple and dagger. Even her captor's.
I sigh, exhausted, she's leading me off the stage by hand. For a mere second her hand feels oddly familiar, reminding me of Mary. I must be more exhausted than I think.
Yet again, there's quite a lot I don't know of Mary's background. Maybe these two are related somehow.
As Sherlock is meeting us quietly at the edge of the stage, I can see the French Police discretely making their entrance to the tent, securing the place.
It's another miracle of Sherlock's doing as far as I'm concerned.
.
'Have another glass of water, John', Sherlock directs me casually, blatantly ignoring the fact that I've spilled water from the first glass because of my shaking hands. Delayed shock is settling, I diagnose myself easily. 'I thought you enjoyed the adrenaline rush', he spikes me, to gauge my reaction.
I nod, non-concomitantly.
'And the stolen property?' I ask at last.
'The Police will return it to the genuine owner.' He shrugs, and cuts a piece of the apple he kept, using the knife that came along with it. As if it was only natural.
'And Rose?' She was definitely one of the heroes tonight.
'She's gone.'
The rest of the circus crew must have left, then. Gone on with the show to their next stop, as if nothing has happened, feeding off their unity in adversity.
'I see.'
'No, you don't', Sherlock contradicts me. I frown in confusion and look up to him, inquiringly. 'It turns out we didn't tell you everything, John.'
Hm?...
He rolls his eyes, childishly. 'Mary says I need to say that I'm sorry, even if you know that I'm not.'
'What...?' I mutter.
'And even if personally I'd think you should be able to recognise your own wife working undercover as a fortune teller.'
Mary is Rose. The soft touch of the hand. I recognised it, only my brain couldn't process it. The familiarity in Rose, that I led to my fast acceptance of her and her story. Sherlock siding with her at once. Rose as an older woman covered in veils and jewellery to distract me from the pregnancy and her true features. Even the mock scars, product of well-applied prosthetics, I assume. Most of all, why come along and keep it a secret?
Sherlock has been eyeing me carefully. Finally, he details: 'You wouldn't want her to come, worried about her condition. Mary, on the other hand, assures me she is pregnant, not ill.'
'She had a knife held against her!' I scream at Sherlock, instantly enraged.
'Slight miscalculations there, I'll admit it', he tells me calmly. All the while his light coloured eyes are uncertain, carrying guilt. He planned for Mary to be safe all along, only he couldn't quite control it. 'And I told you you'd be fine on stage.'
I shake my head, still chewing on the revelations. 'Wait a minute, Mary won't let me have my gun at the house – which, by the way, would have been extremely useful today – but she's willing to put her life at risk?'
'Told you it was a miscalculation, John. Will you catch up already?' he asks, impatiently.
'Why did you lie to me?' I demand to know.
'Its' hardly the first time', he grumps.
'That's not an answer!'
'Mary and I planned the whole thing', he tells me, proudly. 'She was bored of babysitting all day and asked me for a case away from home.' His attitude leaves me speechless, borderline catatonic. 'Just drop it, John, and let's get you back home. Unless you really want to join a circus.'
'I'm quite sure the world has seen enough of Dagger John, Sherlock', I claim, again.
'Too bad. You had potential.'
I recall the apple in his hands at stage. 'You trust me too much sometimes, Sherlock.'
'Nonsense, John.'
.
